


Tired

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Depression, I wanted an outlet and here we are, Mental Illness, hella ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7424458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is tired of... of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm at a low point in life and I decided I needed to write about it and whoops none of my other writings have space so here's a short one about a depressed Q and a James who doesn't really know what to do.

Q was bored.

Not with his work, no; and not with his nonexistent social life; and not with his sexual partners, who numbered eleven in all. No, he was just bored with life in general.

This was more a vague, persistent ache than an actual emotion. It was a voice whispering in the back of his mind that there was nowhere to go from here; it was every virus he created breathing out inarticulate restlessness; it was his inventions getting more and more ludicrous, and yet still able to pass the prototype stage. He was never allowed to make more than one or two each of his new inventions, but it was almost certain that whatever field agent used it, they lauded it and wanted more.

Q was happy to give it to them.

Occasionally he considered suicide. It was never appealing enough. It must hurt very much if you got it wrong (which he wouldn’t), and he didn’t actually want to hurt, just reach a final end that maybe held a new beginning. And every time he began to truly mull it over, something happened to spark vague interest; a prototype would explode or catch fire, a virus would go rogue, one of MI6’s allies would come begging him to rebuild their networks, 007 would get into trouble. That sort of thing.

It was 007’s habit of getting into trouble that truly made Q sit up and pay attention. He didn’t know why. His exploits were no more or less exciting than the other agents’. Maybe it was because he demanded new tech constantly, and was much better at testing every function in new ways than any Q-branch minion. Sometimes he discovered pleasing new uses for new tech, and this endeared him to Q slightly. If 007 weren’t such a rash, idiotic fool who never followed orders, he’d be Q’s favorite.

Q didn’t have favorites. Everyone was too boring for that, even 007. And besides, who would even want to be Q’s favorite? He was just the Quartermaster. He threw shiny new toys into the void and watched as they were swallowed up, and insincere thanks made its slow way to him. He was a means to an end, a machine to be used, not even human…

~~~\0/~~~

James was bored.

It was very much an emotional state. He was restless, irritated, bored, bored, _bored_. That was why things hadn’t worked out between him and Madeleine; the boredom had been the last straw. She’d packed up and left, gone back to her old offices. James didn’t blame her.

The only times he wasn’t bored were when he received those ridiculous (and surprisingly useful) prototypes from Q. He knew for certain that they were from Q only, because they just looked like it. Oh, Q-branch was clever, and new inventions pooled in that fount of ingenuity constantly, but only Q would design, among other things, a silver cigarette case with forty different functions (fifty, if you counted those that James had discovered within twenty hours of receiving the case) and then carve a beautiful, stylized 7 into it. Such a personal touch amused James, and he could only wonder if he’d done the same for 004.

Probably not.

James had a sneaking suspicion that he was Q’s favorite, but it was hard to tell. The man was so very closed off all the time. He may have had an interest in James a while ago, but it had faded so quickly, James was unsure. Or maybe he’d just walled it off. Either way, it was slightly frustrating, because James freely admitted to himself that Q was… attractive.

“He’s a bundle of sticks,” 004 grunted.

James preferred the term “willowy”.

“He’s so cold all the time,” 008 complained.

Sensible, was how James put it.

“He’s a bastard,” 002 said acidly.

James resisted the urge to throw a few punches.

The other, lesser agents, however, nearly worshipped the ground Q walked on; some of the Q-branch minions actually did, or something close to it. They brought him offerings of tea, did all his paperwork for him, did everything possible to let him know he was loved and appreciated—

—and all he ever did was toss new inventions their way and murmur vague pleasantries and drink the tea.

He was _perfect_.

And James was determined to make him understand that.

~~~\0/~~~

Q accepted another mug of tea with surprise and thanked R dully, ignoring the worry-lines on her face. Everyone seemed worried now. Something must have gone wrong with a mission; but every time he asked for sit-reps, he received fake smiles and insincere assurances. He’d quickly given up asking.

The boredom was growing into full-blown depression. Sex helped a little, but he couldn’t have sex constantly; inventing helped even more, but the depression made his fingers slow, his mind slower, his frustration stronger. He couldn’t reach that special, beautiful, empty state of being that let ideas flow. Now he was just bone-deep miserable and determined not to show it.

Thankfully, he had a backlog of ideas scribbled in a notebook; he used them as a guide, and managed to pretend he was just clearing out his head instead of continuing to clutter it up. He smiled still, especially when a project was going well, but it was always very, very small. He wasn’t good at hiding this lack of emotion, had never been good at it. He’d always had at least an undercurrent of annoyance. But now…

It was worse than emptiness.

But he couldn’t show it. That would bring down everyone’s morale. He had to keep up, keep going, keep pushing—

Until one day, when Tanner came to visit, the older man frowned at the younger and interrupted his explanation of his latest project to say, “You look horrible.”

All movement and speech in their vicinity stilled. Q blinked. “Ah… pardon?” he asked politely.

“When was the last time you’ve eaten?” Tanner demanded.

“I… I don’t remember,” he replied, and it disturbed him to know it was true. He remembered every cup of tea, because that was how he measured the time of day, but… no solids. Not even a smoothie. Not even a vitamin.

“And the last time you slept?”

“Just a few hours ago.” He’d been sleeping a lot, actually. There was freedom in sleep. He made up for it by working like a fiend all night, drinking the most caffeinated tea they had until his hands shook too much to hold a pen. Not that they had ever stopped shaking since… “What day is it?”

Now the silence was shocked. Q, not knowing what day it was? His memory less than impeccable? It was unheard of. Q was, had always been, would always be, the sharpest, finest mind in all of MI6.

The expectations of that weighed on him like chains, and he wished he could lock himself in his office and sleep until everyone just went away and left him alone.

“It’s Monday,” Tanner answered him gently, “Third Monday of the month. And I think you’d better eat something and go home.”

“I still have missions to run—“ Q argued, shocked by the gentleness.

“—And I can run them for you,” R stepped in smoothly as she appeared beside him, with a take-out box that smelled disarmingly of his favorite curry. She held it out and wiggled it invitingly. “Come on, take it.”

“I’m not hungry,” he answered, truthfully.

“Q, it’s been four days. Please eat.”

Four. No wonder his hands were shaking. But he refused to give in so easily. “The pen project—“

“Is in capable hands.”

“It sets a bad example.”

“What, taking care of yourself so you don’t die of malnutrition?”

That actually sounded like a good idea, until he shook himself mentally and replied petulantly, “You can’t make me do anything.”

“R can’t,” Tanner agreed, but then his expression hardened in a look Q had never seen before, and he added, “But as Chief of Staff, _I_ can.”

Q firmed up his chin and got ready to fight, but then someone else interrupted. “Can what?” 007 drawled, swaggering down the aisle to stand beside the little huddle of Q, R, and Tanner. “Are you going to make him go home for once?”

Q glared at 007, feeling somewhat betrayed. He shouldn’t—007 was just another agent, after all, and had no loyalty to Q—but the stirrings of annoyance had lifted just enough of the depression to let anger seep through. And the anger seemed not to have a target.

So he unleashed it the only way he knew how: on his work.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, tone so cold and clipped that even 007 looked twice, “I have coding to finish.” And with that, he turned away, back to his computer.

R set the curry by his elbow and quietly dragged the other two men away.

Q typed viciously, each key stabbed instead of tapped, as he made a particularly vicious counter-virus for the next time some idiot tried to test MI6. It would “burn” through the connection, frying everything in its way, and once it reached its destination, would absolutely wipe everything it touched, completely and irrevocably. The only person able to get any of it back would be Q. And he wasn’t particularly interested in saving other people’s data.

But it wasn’t enough. So he went down to the most top secret of the engineering rooms and got to work developing explosives. 007 might be the expert in the field, but here, in the deepest guts of the city, Q was the Master.

Quietly, his engineers left, giving him the silence and solitude he both craved and feared. He worked grimly, eyes narrowed behind his safety glasses, gunpowder in his hair and on his hands, the pungent stench of chemicals all around him. But anger could only carry him so far. Finally, when he finished rigging and then dismantling three different bio-bombs, he took a deep, shuddering breath and backed away from the table. He was feeling weak and light-headed. And slowly, as it always did, it set in that he was creating things used to murder and maim other human beings.

His head dropped into his hands as he dropped onto a stool.

What kind of monster…

The gurgle of water being poured, the sound deepening in tone as it filled a small cavity. Q whirled on his stool and stared.

007 held a kettle in one hand and a tea bag in the other. The agent dumped the used bag in the trash and picked up Q’s mug, holding it out to the Quartermaster. It steamed invitingly and smelled of his favorite Earl Grey.

“If you won’t eat, at least drink,” 007 ordered.

Dully, Q accepted the mug and cradled it in both hands, so the tremor was less obvious. “How do you live with it?” he asked lowly, staring into the whirling brown liquid. “The killing.”

007 went very still. Then he answered, just as softly, “I’m an agent, Q. Killing is part of my job. You’re the Quartermaster—“

“And I have just as much blood on my hands as you, if not more.”

007 did not argue. Q turned away, back to his bombs, back to his latent murders.

“Q…” 007 sighed behind him. “I know distance doesn’t make a difference to you, and that’s… good. The Quartermaster before the last—I’ve heard tales. Christ, even the minions… But you care. You actually think about it. That redeems you.”

“No it doesn’t,” Q whispered fiercely, thin fingers clenching on the mug.

“Yes it does.” Suddenly 007 was looming right beside him, and it was a sign of how tired he was that Q didn’t jump. “You’re human, Q.”

Human? No. Would a human feel this pain, this immeasurable guilt, and then keep going? Would any decent person realize this was wrong, and then come in the next day to do it all over again?

Wait a minute.

Q craned his neck and stared incredulously up at 007. “How did you know…?” he started, and faltered. 007 raised an eyebrow.

“You think I didn’t have the same feelings when I was picked for the 00 program?” he challenged. “ _We’re_ the monsters, Q. You create it; we use it. It’s not the weapons, it’s the intent.”

“But my intent—“

“Q, just shut up,” 007 sighed. Q shut his mouth and glared at him. “I’m not getting into a philosophical debate with you, because you’d win. Now are you going to drink your tea or not?”

Sullenly, and with much grumbling, Q guzzled the drink, even though it made his stomach cramp to do so. “I don’t think you’ve ever spoken to me that much in all the time we’ve known each other,” he muttered when the tea was gone.

“Probably not,” 007 agreed mildly, taking the mug away. Q did not resist. “You’re the one who talks too much.”

Q sighed instead of answering, and stared dully at the disarmed and dismantled bomb in front of him. He didn’t talk too much. He _didn’t_.

007 watched him carefully for a few moments. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked, delicately.

Q thought about his possible answers, and weighed the possible outcomes. Finally, he settled on, “Help me fix this. Something’s still off and I can’t figure out what.”

One blink. That was all the surprise 007 showed, before he nodded, set the mug out of the way, and scrounged up a lab coat big enough to fit him.

They spent roughly an hour finding all the flaws that Q had missed in his fog of rage. By that time, Q was calm again. The anger had drained away, leaving him feeling… exhausted. Empty. Unfinished. But he couldn’t say such things to 007.

“Thank you,” he sighed, taking off his safety goggles, after they had finished the last bomb.

“Sharing the blame, ey?” 007 chuckled as he shrugged out of the coat. Then, seeing the way Q’s expression darkened and closed, he added, “If it makes you feel any better, I take full responsibility for pointing out flaws that would’ve potentially rendered the bomb useless.”

It didn’t make him feel better. It made him feel worse. He had asked 007 to find the flaws and help him fix them—he was indirectly responsible. But if it made _007_ feel better, that was alright.

They emerged from the deepest depths to find that everyone had gone home, but someone had left a box of ten shiny prototype pens on Q’s desk. And his electric kettle was only just beginning to sing.

~~~\0/~~~

James was having trouble articulating his feelings when it came to Q. So he went to the only person he knew he could trust with something this important: Ms. Moneypenny.

He broached the subject while they were out at the pub, getting pleasantly buzzed; neither of them were idiot enough to get drunk. He tried to be roundabout about it, but she caught on disturbingly quickly.

“If you’re trying to say you have a thing for our Q, just say it,” she ordered frankly, before he could even get started on his best dithering. “Although, I admit, you’re excellent at hiding it. R briefed you on his condition, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” James answered, quickly catching himself. Ms. Moneypenny had certainly caught him off-guard, but now he was ready for whatever other revelations she may have. “He’s been like this for months, right?”

“Yes,” Moneypenny echoed with a sigh. “It was bad in the beginning, but now it’s just horrid. And he won’t say what’s wrong. Have you noticed how ridiculous his inventions have been lately?”

James smiled, remembering a particularly interesting miniature flame-thrower he’d been given to test. “It’s hard not to.”

“Well, R said she found a notebook full of ideas, most of which he’s used. Half of them are useless, some are downright dangerous, even for us, and the rest he’s throwing out there like he’s trying to keep demons at bay.” Moneypenny took a pull of her beer and sighed again, leaning back in her seat. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

James sipped his own drink to give himself a moment. Hmm. “Has he been to the Psych unit?”

“Oh, good god, don’t mention Psych!” Moneypenny groaned, wincing, “Especially not around him! He already went, to humor R, and when they asked to hold him a few days he nearly blew the place up.”

“Why?”

“Like hell if I know, and I wouldn’t tell you even if I did. I’ve said too much already.”

And that was the end of that conversation.

It was not, however, the end of James’ campaign to help Q.

~~~\0/~~~

007 was being a nuisance.

Or, not a nuisance, but a _distraction_. Q didn’t understand it. He just wanted to work. What did he ever do to deserve this madness?

First, 007 began to feed Q at random. He would have an out-of-town mission, then, on the day he came home, he’d buy a good, hearty takeout meal and leave it on Q’s desk. At first Q didn’t know what to do with them, until he realized that, if he at least picked at it throughout the day, no one would comment on his not eating for a week.

Then, 007 started showing up between briefings and missions and offering his services testing new toys. And he always demanded that Q hang around to walk him through the listed uses, and also to witness 007’s deadly thought process. Q didn’t really know why he kept agreeing. He told himself it was that vague interest, that strange emotion, that he clung to with all his might, because finally, _finally_ , he was _feeling_ something.

And then, a few months after this began, they were testing a handgun together when 007 asked bluntly, “Do you have plans tonight?”

Q blinked at him. “Ah… yes, actually,” he answered. “I’m going to dinner with a few friends.” He was actually going to get dizzyingly drunk with a few of his partners and then participate in an orgy, but 007 didn’t need to know that.

“Pity. Moneypenny and I were going to gather some mates and have a drinking contest at her place.” 007 watched Q’s face carefully, his own inscrutable. Q showed nothing; he couldn’t make himself care, anyway.

“That sounds interesting. I hope you have fun. How’s the kickback on this one?”

Later, when he and his four partners were all tangled together on his custom mattress from UltraBed, Tiffany panted, “Q, sweetheart, why can I count all of your ribs?”

“Never mind my ribs,” he growled, and they went back to sex.

But when they were all done and exhausted, huddled together for warmth because somehow (again) the blanket had disappeared, Jordan, too, touched Q’s ribcage and commented worriedly, “No, really, mate, what’s wrong?”

Sammy wrapped one arm around Q and trailed her fingertips down his spine, making him shiver. “I’m fine,” he said firmly, snuggling further into Sammy’s ample bosom and pulling Jordan a little closer. “So did any of you hear about the latest royal scandal?”

“No, what happened?”

“There was another one?”

“Not again…”

“Tell, tell!”

This was really the only time Q felt safe and wanted; here, in the dark, pleasantly buzzed, cuddled on all sides by lovers who said they were his friends, giving the juiciest gossip he knew. If he fed their need for drama, if he let them in his bed whenever they wanted, if he gave them all of himself and everything he had—surely they would at least pretend to love him?

He fell asleep with George running his fingers through Q’s hair.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Q felt a little better. He had a light breakfast (an apple and three mugs of tea was a breakfast, wasn’t it?), kissed everyone on the cheek, and headed out into the snow.

It was late January. Warmest winter on record so far, but still cold. He pulled his scarf a little more snuggly around his neck, ducked his chin under, and set off. The Tube was humid and too warm, but he didn’t unwrap the tiniest bit; and he was glad, because when he emerged, it was snowing even harder. Thank god he didn’t have too much of a walk to the new MI6 building.

Once inside, he loosened his scarf and took a deep breath of blessedly dry air before heading straight to the lifts, waving his pass vaguely at the security guard. The guard frowned, but let him pass. Good. If he hadn’t, Q would’ve… well, he didn’t know what he’d do, but it wouldn’t be fitting of the Quartermaster himself.

Not that anyone knew _he_ was the Quartermaster. They thought he was just a regular boffin, competent enough to be high-clearance, but mousey enough to be no real threat. Oh, if they only knew.

By the time he’d reached his stronghold, he’d worked himself into scowling annoyance, at people who underestimated him, at people who underestimated his minions, at people in general. The elevator voice announcing which floor he was on grated on his nerves. His own footsteps made his skin crawl. And when he emerged into the hive that was his home, the chatter of his worker bees beat against his eardrums like tiny hammers that would—not—stop—

He did not slam the door to his office, but it was a near thing; and he almost sobbed with relief at the beautiful, blessed silence.

007 had been by. Amazing how the man knew Q’s timetable to the minute; the soup sitting on Q’s desk was still hot. Not that it mattered what temperature it was. He wasn’t going to eat it. Why should he? He didn’t want the pleasure of a full stomach, the relief of hands that didn’t shake and a head that wasn’t full of cotton. His throat tightened, but he scowled and shoved the fledgling feelings aside. Ridiculous thoughts. He just wasn’t hungry, that was all.

It took him three hours to fight through the bitter annoyance left over from the time stewing in the lift. He kept halting, staring at the screens or keyboard with no recollection of what he was doing, just a vague, unsettled, unhappy feeling descending on him. No, that wasn’t right; it was like fine wire tangled like steel wool, wetted with mercury, poisonous and heavy. No—damn it, that wasn’t it, either. It was—it was—

He was so tired.

“You don’t like the soup?”

“I haven’t tasted it yet,” he answered absently, typing in three words of code and having to pause, his mind still heavy and dull. “What do you want, 007?”

“Distraction.” 007 leaned one hip on the edge of Q’s desk and smiled. It was more of a smirk, and Q didn’t like it. “Do you have any more toys for me?”

“Garage three, they have a motorcycle you can drive,” Q replied, forcing himself to type out six more words before his mind drifted, and instead he pulled up a different project, reading through it carefully before continuing it. Again, he barely picked up where he left off before he lost interest and tried a third program.

“I was hoping for something louder than that.”

“It’s loud enough. There’s even a grappling hook.”

007 was silent for a moment. Q gave up on project #3 and went back to the first one. But he still couldn’t think of how to progress. He sighed and closed all three, pulling up his email instead. Please let there be something, anything, to break his own monotony.

“Eat your soup,” 007 said finally.

“Not hungry,” Q muttered, scanning his emails.

“I spent good money on that liquid gold. At least taste it.”

Q eyed the bowl mistrustfully, then sighed heavily and pulled it towards himself. A plastic spoon was balanced on top; he caught it before it fell off and popped off the lid of the bowl, giving the soup a dubious stir. It was stone-cold by then, which he didn’t mind. Clearly 007 did, because he frowned and said, “Let me warm that up for you.” He actually reached out as if to take the bowl from Q, the fool.

“It’s fine,” Q snapped, and jammed a spoonful of soup in his mouth. Vegetable. He hated vegetable soup. Just the taste had his stomach in knots. But he forced himself to swallow, and said irritably, “There, I tasted it. Are you happy now?”

“No,” 007 answered lowly, “Because _you’re_ not happy.”

This was so unexpected that Q blinked. Quickly, he rallied. “Your concern is—appreciated, but misplaced. Please go see if it’s possible to blow up the new motorcycle. I doubt it is, but I’d rather be sure before you try and take it out in the field.”

007 just looked at him for a minute, watching his face. Q stared back defiantly, but he could feel his insides crumbling. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.

Just before Q broke down completely, 007 looked away, to the wall of computers, and revealed blandly, “We’re _all_ concerned, Q.”

His hands tightened into fists in his lap. His eyes dropped almost without his permission to the screens ranged before him. “Don’t be,” he replied testily. He could feel the beginning of tears, and wanted 007 _gone_. “I’m perfectly alright. I just need to work.”

He could feel those ice-eyes on him, and he just couldn’t meet them. So he raised his hands and started typing out a reply to yet another email from Psych demanding his presence for a checkup. He just wanted to _work_. Didn’t anyone know what that meant anymore?

007 picked up the bowl of soup and the spoon and left.

Q told himself he wasn’t disappointed.

~~~\0/~~~

“Well?”

James considered dumping the bowl of soup in Moneypenny’s lap, but she’d do worse than kill him. So instead he stuck the bowl in the breakroom microwave and punched in one minute. “He wasn’t hungry,” he answered her.

Moneypenny sighed and sipped her coffee. “I told you, he hates vegetable soup.”

“I saw.” Q had looked about to be sick, actually. “Is there anything he likes?”

“Apple fritters, on occasion,” Moneypenny supplied. “Once in a while he’ll eat sushi. I saw him trying hamburgers a long time ago.”

“Anything recent?”

“Whatever you give him.” Moneypenny took a sip of her coffee, eyeing James calculatingly. “I don’t think he cares anymore, except for things he really hates. It’s very kind of you, trying to make him eat.”

“Entirely selfish,” James waved the compliment aside airily. “I want to put some meat on those bones before I _really_ try.”

Moneypenny smirked.

It took another minute in the microwave to heat the soup, and James devoured it without waiting for it to cool. He wondered vaguely what Q tasted like. Since he wondered this every day, he could ignore the thought.

Later that day, while James was doing tricks on the motorcycle for the benefit of the engineering minions, Q ghosted through the door and waited quietly at the back. James, of course, noticed him immediately, but politely ignored him until he was done showing off. Then he turned to Q and said with a grin, “Indestructible.”

“That’s good,” Q answered calmly. “Any improvements needed?”

“The grappling hook gets tangled once every six shots or so, and also…” James and the engineers listed off the (few) issues, and Q nodded.

“I’ll get right on that,” he promised, “As soon as I’m done building this new firewall.”

And he drifted out again, hands clasped behind his back, head up, shoulders tensed like he expected something to be thrown at him. James frowned. He’d seen that posture before, but he couldn’t quite remember where… which meant he’d not deemed it important at the time. What a mistake.

“Um… 007?”

“Hm?” He looked back to the engineers, and plastered on his most convincing, most charming smile. “Ah, yes. Where were we?”

~~~\0/~~~

Q took some vitamins and snuck some spinach leaves from R’s salad at lunch. He scurried back to his office before she could slap his hand, and spent the rest of the afternoon worrying if the vitamins would be enough to keep him from actual malnutrition. He knew he needed more than that, but really, he couldn’t be arsed to care. He just didn’t want his teeth to fall out or anything truly horrible like that.

He ran his hand through his hair and grimaced. He was losing hair, but thankfully not very much and not in clumps. Still, he didn’t want it to be obvious. It might be time to get it cut.

No. He fisted his hands in his hair and leaned his elbows on his desk. The little prickles of pain that were hairs pulled by his death-grip loosened something in his chest. He refused to get even a trim. He had good hair, all his partners had said so, and even if it was turning dull, at least it was still soft. It was his one good feature. He didn’t want to let it go.

“Headache?”

“007.” Carefully, Q loosened his grip and sat up, clasping his hands and resting his chin on them as he eyed 007 wearily. “What can I help you with?”

“Just wanted to apologize,” 007 answered, voice smooth as a snake’s and smile just as emotionless. “I wasn’t aware that you disliked soup.”

“Not all soup,” Q felt compelled to point out. “Just vegetable.”

“Do you like grilled cheese and tomato?”

“Not particularly.”

“Chicken noodle?”

“Ehck.”

“Chicken and dumpling?”

“Uh-uh.”

007 continued to rattle off soups, and if Q had been in a worse mood, he might have been annoyed; instead, he felt a stirring of curiosity, and he clung to it hopefully.

“Why are you here?” he interrupted 007’s litany. “Surely you didn’t come all the way here just to pester me about my food choices.”

007 smiled and walked— _prowled_ —around the desk and stood beside Q’s chair, eyeing the multiple screens with their multitude of windows and looking… amused. “Are any of those important?” he asked.

“No,” Q admitted, running his hand through his hair again and automatically shaking the strands that had caught on his fingers into the small bin under his desk. “It’s all—hey!” he squawked, jerking away as 007’s hand shot out and copied the motion. But it was too late, 007 was inspecting the few hairs he’d caught and frowning mightily at them.

“What’s wrong with you?” 007 snapped, and Q shrank away warily. “You won’t eat, you won’t focus, you’re oversleeping—what is _wrong_?”

“Nothing!” Q snarled, “I’m _fine_! Go away and find someone else to harass!”

007’s jaw clenched, his expression hardened, and for a moment, Q felt an honest flash of fear—

But then, with a visible effort, 007 relaxed. In what he probably thought was a soothing tone, he tried to placate, “I didn’t mean to give that impression. I was asking on behalf of Q-Branch; we’re all worried for you.”

Q almost challenged him—do you? Do you really give a damn? Or are you just saying that to make yourself look good? But when he met 007’s eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to. That looked like real concern. Rough, misdirected, but real. It was… disconcerting.

“There is nothing wrong,” Q lied softly. “Just… hit a rough patch. I’ll be fine.”

007 left after that. Q went back to refining his new firewall, and if he cried a little—well, who could blame him? It was stressful, trying to convince everyone he was alright when he wasn’t in the slightest. But he would be. He _would_ be. He just had to work at it a little harder.

Tonight—he’d ask Tammy to come by. Tammy, with her laugh like bells and her violet-blue eyes sparkling, her sharp, dry wit cutting down everything in her path. Tammy, who could always make him laugh, especially during sex. More than once, they’d had to stop right in the middle because they were both laughing too hard. Tammy was, by far, his favorite partner.

But she had a husband (who knew about Q and didn’t seem to mind), and Q couldn’t commit; he was MI6’s, utterly, completely.

That made another few tears leak out. What was Q, outside of MI6? Nobody. He’d left it all behind; the hacking, the names and faces, the life he’d loved. Now he was just… Q. Quartermaster. Nothing to him but his job.

But hadn’t he always been nothing but his job?

No. No, this was too much. Impulsively, he shoved away from the desk, stood, and paced a circuit of his office five times. That didn’t stop his mind obsessing over that thought. What was he? Nothing. Nobody. A cog, a, a single line of code—nothing, nothing, nothing, without MI6.

He dug his fingers into his hair, nails biting into his scalp, and let out a single sob. When had this happened? When had he lost so much of himself like this? Where was he?

He couldn’t even associate himself with his own birth-name anymore.

Where was he?

~~~\0/~~~

James was unabashedly stalking the quartermaster.

He dug up every file he had access to, and everything he didn’t, and was frustrated with what he found, which was—nothing. He tried to interrogate Tanner, but Tanner caught on and sent him sharply on his way. Most people would be astonished and more than a little awed to find that the Chief of Staff could pull rank with the best of them, even on 00 agents; James wasn’t. He found it distinctly annoying. But Tanner knew things, so James went away and didn’t come back.

Moneypenny was no help. Neither was R. None of the minions James caught knew a damn thing. The current Q began existence at the death of the old Q. There was nothing before that time.

M had known, surely; James’ M, the proper M, the tiny lady who knew everything about everyone. But her secrets were as dead as she was. There was no point dwelling on what she did and didn’t know.

Q began as Q, and would most likely end as Q. He was as eaten up by MI6 as James, as any 00 agent.

Not even a fucking birth certificate.

So James did what most said he could never do; he watched, and he waited.

~~~\0/~~~

Q’s existential crisis continued for two hours, until he was almost wild with a panicky need to find himself. But he knew it wouldn’t work. So he went down to the workshops, taking back-halls and nipping into unused rooms whenever he heard anyone coming; and when he reached the workshops, he locked himself in his private ‘shop and got to work designing a new car, completely from scratch. There would be no hidden functions. It would be a simple electric automobile, perhaps bulletproof and with a self-destruct to keep rivals’ hands off it. Oh, and a kill-switch for if it were stolen.

Q was shaking. He bit his lip and continued drafting doggedly.

When he looked at the clock tucked in the corner, it was 1:47 AM. Well. So much for spending time with Tammy. Reluctantly, he packed up his tools, locked up his blueprints, and powered down everything. His light was the only one still on. He sighed as he closed the door behind him and trudged to the lift. Hopefully it was still working. If not… he winced at the thought of stairs, but braced himself.

Not only was the lift still on, but when he walked into his office (only just sneaking past the night shift), 007 was lounging in the second chair ( _not_ Q’s Special Desk Chair) with an electric kettle, a box of tea bags, and four trashy romance novels. Which 007 was reading. Avidly.

“Ah, Q,” 007 said distractedly as Q stopped in the doorway and stared. “I wanted to apologise, but I got sidetracked. Christ, Leonard’s a twat.”

“Where did you find those?” Q asked, too startled to be disturbed.

“Did you know, there’s a false shelf in M’s office?” 007 didn’t even look up. “I borrowed some of his reading material. I hope Matilda doesn’t fall for this prick, Stephen is much more her type.”

Q edged around 007 and made himself a mug of tea. It would help his headache. “What’s happening?” he inquired, cringing slightly.

“Well, Matilda is a spunky, sassy librarian, Stephen is a spunky, sassy electrician, and Leonard is a dickhead. He’s also the tour guide at the Smithsonian and is flirting very badly with Matilda. She better not—“ 007 paused, reading further, and scowled, before flipping all the way to the last page and sighing heavily. “Yes. She marries Leonard. Doesn’t this author know anything about writing proper romance?”

“Gothic romances,” Q offered timidly. “The kind with murders and ghosts. Those can be fun.”

007 cocked his head and eyed Q with mild surprise. “You just like the suspense,” he accused.

Q’s face felt strange. Was he smiling? “Yes.”

“Agatha Christie?”

“You insult me. Memorized all of her writing.”

“ _All_ of it?”

Q proceeded to flawlessly recite “And Then There Were None”, until 007 finally interrupted with a chuckle. “Alright, alright, I yield. Have you ever read “The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane”?”

They discussed books for a good hour or so. Then, suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit Q, and he had to set down his mug sharply. Immediately, 007 was on his feet, hands out to catch him if necessary. Q scowled, tried to snap out that he was fine, just tired—and then the world went dark.

~~~\0/~~~

James caught Q and hefted him up into his arms easily. Too easily. Q weighed far less than he should.

That didn’t matter at that moment. What mattered was getting him to Medical. James stalked out of the office, through Q-branch, and into the lift, Q’s head tucked under his chin. Funny; even totally unconscious, Q tended to curl up rather than loll, and he was curled tightly indeed in James’ arms. He also seemed to be pressing himself as close to James as he could. James tried not to take this as a sign. It was just Q being himself.

Nothing known about him, nothing at all, so what ‘self’ was he…

“007?”

“He just passed out,” James explained to the nurse at the front desk. “We were talking and he fell over.”

The nurse looked at Q for a moment, then ordered briskly, “Come with me, then. We’ll keep him until he wakes up. Probably after that, too.”

James sighed and followed as she stood and walked through the doors into the medical wing proper. There was an actual nurse’s station there, and the few who were gathered took one look at poor Q and began to fuss.

James withstood this bravely, as the nurses crowded around and argued over what to do with Q. The only consensus was that he be put in a quiet room far from the agents recovering from field wounds, and perhaps handcuffed so he couldn’t bolt. Also a parenteral. James had expected that.

What he _hadn’t_ expected was the questioning.

Did he seem dizzy? What was his weight? When was the last time he’d eaten? Did James know if he was eating at home? No? Did he know if he was eating while at work? Yes? How? Ahh, so he was either a stalker or a good friend. (James didn’t answer either way.) What had he eaten? Nibbles, nibbles of _what_?

Eventually they had Q in a pre-prepped room, and two nurses took official duties, shooing out everyone else, including James. He was fairly disgruntled, but knew that they were just trying to do their job.

Still, he wanted to be there. He wanted Q to know what hero saved him.

~~~\0/~~~

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Yes, dear,” the nurse soothed as she finished drawing Q’s blood for yet another test, “But please do it after we get you back on your feet.”

“I could be on my feet, if you’d _just let me up_ —“

“No. What if you fall again?”

Q opened his mouth to argue further, but the nurse glared, eyes steely, and he didn’t, instead just muttering resentfully to himself.

They wouldn’t even give him his laptop.

No, instead he had to let them do _tests_. So many _tests_. And in the meantime, representatives from Psych were gleefully picking him apart, taking advantage of his unbalanced state to ask him questions he’d tried so hard to avoid. His waspish answers, as he tried desperately to protect himself from their pestering, only seemed to encourage them.

It had only been a day and he was already mentally exhausted.

And all because of 007.

Wisely, the agent was avoiding him. R had promised to make his life a living hell for however long Q was out of commission, and Q trusted her to follow through on that threat. Really, why he’d taken him _here_ of all places…

He feel the depression setting it, dampening the anger. He fought it valiantly—no no no no no let him keep feeling, let him hold to this ounce of energy—but it settled anyway, and left him emotionally exhausted as well as mentally. Psych would probably be delighted. So he decided to do the only thing he could do without repercussions, and sleep.

Or, he tried. But before he could even fully relax and close his eyes, he heard footsteps in the hall, and not in the soft-soled shoes the nurses all wore. Moments later, M himself arrived in the doorway, eyeing Q disapprovingly.

“Well,” M said. “Care to explain yourself?”


	3. Chapter 3

“No! I can’t go on leave!”

M sighed and examined his nails to avoid Q’s terrified eyes. “Until you figure out what’s wrong, I don’t want you here,” he stated, again.

“You don’t trust me to do my job,” Q clarified tightly.

“No.”

Of course he didn’t. Why would he? There _was_ something wrong; but surely Q wasn’t doing _that_ poorly? Q refused to give this up without a fight. “There are projects to finish, missions to run! The 00s especially--!”

“You don’t trust your own second-in-command?” M riposted.

Q hesitated, and M took the opening.

“R can handle the branch for however long you’re out. And what kind of example do you set, passing out like that? What does it say to your people that you refuse to leave them to their own devices and take care of yourself? You’re human, Q. You run down like everyone else.” Only M could get away with being so ruthless, Q thought numbly. “It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.” Then M sighed and continued, more gently, “Go home and rest. Call in a girlfriend or two to keep you company. Q branch can run itself just fine for a week or so.”

“Three days,” Q retorted shortly. “I’ll only take three days.”

M gave him a knowing look. But he said nothing.

~~~\0/~~~

Three days later, Q didn’t even want to get out of bed.

The first day, he’d worked from home. The second, R had told him sharply over the phone that everything was _fine_ and he should focus on himself. He’d cried a little that afternoon, but no one knew—besides the cats.

This, the third day, he felt so miserable and useless that he refused to crawl out from under his warm, cuddly blanket. His stomach was used to no breakfast, and his brain was used to no sleep (he’d spent hours upon hours lying on his back, thoughts racing, unable to pick out any theme except a deep sense of loss); but his body, though leaden and cold, was unused to lying still all day. But what was the point of getting up to do anything?

He managed to feed the cats around noon, then crawled back into bed and just lay there.

The fourth day, he called Tammy, but she and her husband were fighting, so he said sorry and rang off. All his other lovers were busy, and had no time to come urge him to get out of bed and go to work. Of course they didn’t. No one did. No one wanted to. There was no resentment, only dull acceptance. No one cared about him enough to come shame him into working.

Because he knew that was the only reason he would ever go back; when the shame and guilt grew too much, when the urgency to take over and free up everyone else reached true agitation, that was when he would get off his lazy arse and go back.

Lazy. That was another thing; without his work to carry him through, he just lazed the days away, and never mind that each empty hour made him loathe himself more and more. The fourth day, he realized he should shower—but he didn’t feel like it. Why should he? he thought bitterly to himself. They didn’t want him at work, they would have called if they did; none of his friends cared to come check on him.

The cats cared. That pushed him to the verge of tears every time; his kitty-cats cared.

Soon, too soon, a week had passed. Someone tried to call him; he let it go to voicemail, because he was wrapped in bed and the phone was way over there, out of reach.

The fourth time someone called, he snaked one arm free and tried to use jedi mind-powers to bring the phone to him. It didn’t work. So he snuggled down again and ignored it.

They stopped calling at seven calls.

The next day—day number eight—he managed to gather enough willpower to go to the kitchen and drink some tea. Then he came back and looked at his phone. All the calls were from… He squinted, and blinked. An unknown number. Ah. They just had the wrong number, was all.

Just as he was about to put the phone down, it started buzzing insistently, and R’s name flashed up on the screen. He sighed deeply and answered it.

“Hello?” he mumbled.

“Q, we’ve been trying to reach you for days! Are you alright?” she asked anxiously.

He thought about it, he really did. “Yes,” he said. “It could be worse.” He refused to say what “it” was.

“You don’t sound alright.”

“I’m just… tired. That’s all.”

“We’re going to send someone to check on you.”

“No, that isn’t necessary—“

“Yes it is. We know you’re not taking care of yourself. Stay put,” she ordered sternly, as if he had anywhere to go. Then she rang off.

He dropped the phone on the nightstand and curled up in bed again.

His security alarm beeped two hours later, but he ignored it. Fluent swearing from the direction of the front door meant whoever had broken in had discovered the electrical current running through the doorknob and sill. Not enough to kill, just enough to seriously incapacitate.

Except the intruder was not incapacitated.

“Q?” the intruder called. “Q, are you here?”

Maybe if he stayed very still and quiet, the intruder would go away. He had a Taser, modified of course, but that might not be enough to stop them if the door failed to. His cats, curled up underneath the blankets with him, slid sinuously free; Ginny stretched luxuriously, while Gwen groomed her paw briefly. Both were calico—they were sisters, in fact—and as fierce as attack-dogs when they wanted to be. He could tell they were preparing for a fight. He wanted to say thank you, but he couldn’t out loud, and if he touched them they’d bite. So he stayed hidden, as the sister-cats prowled off the enormous bed and leapt lightly to the ground.

Perhaps the intruder thought their footsteps soft. They weren’t as soft as a cat’s.

With a mighty yowl, the cats attacked, and Q sat bolt upright with his Taser at the ready, to stare in astonishment as 007 yelped and hopped backwards, Ginny hooked on the inside of his thigh, Gwen clawing her way up to his face, both hissing and spitting.

“DON’T--!” Q shouted, just as 007 grabbed Gwen to stop her before she could claw his eyes out, “Don’t hurt them!”

“They’re the ones hurting me!” 007 snapped, and yelped again as Ginny bit the crotch of his pants. “FUCK!”

“Ginny, Gwen, stop it!” Q dropped his Taser and scrambled off the bed, reaching for Gwen first, as the most ferocious of the pair; both cats silently fell away from 007 and instead twined around Q’s legs, as if to reassure him that they wouldn’t bite this stranger again—yet.

“Christ, what kind of cats _are_ those?!” 007 gasped, one hand holding the injury as the other slid his gun back in its holster. Wait… gun?

“They’re _my_ cats,” Q replied testily, and knelt so he could pet them. “Big strong girls who can take on any 00 agent. Why are you here and why do you have a gun.” His voice was too flat for it to be a question.

“I thought something had happened to you,” 007 muttered, obviously sulking as he cast around for… what? “You never answered my calls, and then R said I should come check on you… Christ, that one with the orange ear is cruel.”

“Ginny.” Q scratched said orange ear, and Ginny blinked a cat-smile at him. “Her name is Ginny. And it’s Gwen you have to watch. She’d’ve had your eyes out if I hadn’t called her.”

007 frowned and sat, gingerly, on the edge of the bed. “So you’re not dead or kidnapped or any of that,” he stated frankly.

“I should think that was obvious.” Q got up on the bed as well, but crawled all the way to the headboard and flung himself down on the pillows, keeping 007 in the corner of his eye. Ginny and Gwen, sensing that the intruder was safe, flowed over to Q and curled up against his stomach.

Wincing, 007 turned to look at the picture the three of them made. Then, infuriatingly enough, he smirked.

“We were just worried, that’s all. Why do you have such a huge bed?”

“You can’t fit seven people on a king-size,” Q answered frankly, and then blushed as 007’s eyebrows leapt towards his hairline.

“Seven?” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Yes,” Q replied, expression mulish. “Twelve, when the mood strikes us.”

Now 007 looked incredibly impressed. “Eleven partners? Christ, Q, not even _I’ve_ gotten that far,” he joked.

“There’s nothing wrong with having multiple partners,” Q snapped back, blush deepening.

“No, of course not. That just seems like… a lot.”

“It’s not like that _every_ night,” Q grumbled.

“I should hope not,” 007 replied, with a hint of a growl to his tone. Before Q could decide what that meant, 007 added abruptly, “So since you’re not dead, I assume this means you’re ready for work?”

Work. Q flinched at the thought. For all his longing for something to do, he wasn’t sure if he was ready. Then again, he didn’t feel ready for anything. And the unpreparedness had only grown worse over time. So, yes. He was ready.

“Let me get cleaned up,” he said, reluctantly, “And then I’ll be ready.”

“Cleaned up?” 007 seemed to focus more sharply on him, and he frowned even harder than before. “How long has it been since you showered?”

Q winced as he muttered into Gwen’s fur, “About nine days.”

“Well that’s not too bad, although your spots are worse.” 007 stood, still with a hand to his injured manhood. Obviously Ginny had bit him harder than Q had first thought. “Get up. I’ll, ah, wait in whatever room is least covered in… computer parts.”

“Components,” Q offered helpfully, but stayed right where he was.

007 looked at him, and suddenly his expression turned undefinable. “Do you need help getting up?” he asked.

Q shook his head and pressed his face into Gwen’s side, feeling her purr against his cheek.

“Apparently you do.”

And before Q could say or do anything, 007 was climbing on the bed and pulling Q into a sitting position. He yelped, the cats hissed, and 007 smiled.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked, confident in his ability to startle Q out of whatever funk he’d landed in. Q just stared, shocked, and not quite sure why. Maybe it was that someone uninvited was in his home, in his _bed_ , for god’s sake—maybe it was that 007 was apparently attempting to take care of him.

He felt pressure in his eyes, and tried to turn away, but 007 caught his chin in one scarred hand and turned him back, frowning. “Q? What’s—“

Fight them as he may, the tears still came. He hiccupped, yanked out of 007’s grip, and reached for his cats; but the felines immediately jumped up and moved out of reach, and that broke his heart.

And then he was sobbing, helplessly, endlessly, shaking with the violence of his tears, and horrified to be this way in front of 007. But he couldn’t stop. He just… couldn’t stop.

007 was staring at him, stunned. Q drew up his knees and hid behind them, arms wrapped around his legs. Around a mouthful of sobs, he got out, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m not a better quartermaster, I’m sorry I can’t get any work done, I’m sorry I didn’t eat any of the stuff you gave me, I’m sorry I shouted, I’m sorry—“

“Q. Q!” 007 interrupted the litany to grab Q’s shoulders and, after a moment’s hesitation, pull him into a rough hug. Q’s sobbing turned off with a squeak, though the tears continued to flow. He gaped up at 007, who scowled down at him and shoved his head against 007’s shoulder. “You didn’t do anything you need to apologise for,” 007 told him gruffly. “So _please_ stop crying.”

It was the vague air of desperation to those words that made Q laugh, a little manically. “You’re funny,” he mumbled into 007’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

“Well, the feeling is mutual,” 007 murmured, rubbing Q’s back lightly.

Ginny crept closer, then laid down behind Q. Gwen stalked over and curled up at Q’s hip. He could stop crying for them. Reluctantly, he started to push 007 away… and 007 yanked him sharply back, wrapping his arms more tightly around Q.

“Why are you still hugging me?”

“Because you need it. Do you want me to stop?”

Q snuggled under 007’s—Bond’s—chin. “No,” he whispered.

“Then I won’t,” Bond replied firmly.

~~~\0/~~~

James could not believe it.

He had the quartermaster in his arms. Q. _Q_. The man he dreamed about when he slept for more than three hours at a time. Greasy, slightly smelly, very scruffy—but it really was him. For a long moment James felt…elation.

Finally, after what seemed like a long time and yet not long enough, Q sighed and pushed away from James again. He looked too adorable and utterly vulnerable—and James almost couldn’t stand to touch him, for fear of breaking him somehow. But he couldn’t let go fully, either. He kept his hands on Q’s skinny little biceps and looked him over, particularly his face. He didn’t need to memorize it—he’d done that when he’d first discovered his attraction to Q—but he wanted to see what was different (besides the beard), what made the invincible, inscrutable Q so… so…

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

Q’s eyes widened, and his face turned from miserable to guarded. “Why do you care?” he demanded.

“Because I want to know.” James scooted a little closer, knowing that having the vicious cat behind him (Ginny?) would prevent Q from scooting away. “I want to know everything.” He let his voice get husky, stroked his hands down all the way from Q’s biceps to his wrists; “I want to know _you_.”

Q was staring at him in patent disbelief. Finally he said frankly, “If this is your way of saying you need a shag, I know over a dozen women who—“

“I don’t want a woman, I want _you_ ,” James interrupted, trying not to scowl. “Christ, you are so _thick_ sometimes, you boffin. Just tell me, so I know what I’m getting into for once.”

Q continued to stare at him. Then he said flatly, “Danny. My name was Danny. I started over when I joined MI6.”

“From scratch?”

“Yes.”

James digested this for a moment. Danny. Danny had essentially “died” when he became Q. But why, then, had he been scrubbed from the world? Surely he could’ve faked his own death…

Q was watching him warily. James let go of one thin wrist (far too bony, far too cold) and stroked Q’s cheek with his knuckles, gently, startling Q. “I can understand,” he offered simply—and it was true. He understood the need to essentially disappear. Not the destroying of evidence, perhaps, but if that was what it took for Q to feel safe…

Said quartermaster just looked… tired, now. He’d stopped crying, and now he seemed absolutely exhausted. James ignored the little voice in his head babbling about duty and taking Q back to work, and instead laid a hand gently on his cheek, making him flinch again; but then he leaned into the touch, biting his lip, perilously close to tears again. But he didn’t cry.

“Shower,” James ordered firmly. “While you’re showering I’ll change the sheets, and then you can sleep some more. I’ll tell everyone to go fuck themselves if they ask for you.”

~~~\0/~~~

Q spent a distressingly long time in the shower. First he washed his hair, and was surprised at all the knots and snarls that he had to work out slowly. Then he scrubbed with a flannel until every inch was clean, using up quite a bit of soap, and when he stepped out he finally shaved his face. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been—he hated beards and had compulsively shaved every time he went to the bathroom for about four days. Then his face got raw and red and he had to stop. And now the scruff was edging out of the scruff phase, and he actually cared about his appearance for the first time in—how long has it been? A week?

It didn’t matter. He stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in two fluffy towels, one around his waist, one around his shoulders. He was always cold, but leaving the hot shower was the worst. As soon as he opened the door to the bathroom, Bond was there, with a pile of blessedly clean pyjamas in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.

“Which first?” Bond asked, holding both clothing and mug forward a little.

Q stared longingly at the tea, then muttered “Clothes.”

“No. Tea.” Bond extended the mug; Q latched on to it and drank greedily, not particularly caring if his towel-cape fell open to expose his torso. It was his good tea, as well. The one he’d been saving for… well, he wasn’t sure. But it certainly made him feel a little better.

He felt a little silly, just standing in the hall with nothing but towels to protect him, but Bond was making sure he drank every drop, watching Q sharply, and not taking a single step to take advantage.

It was still unnerving.

With the tea in his tummy, Bond handed him his clothes, and he retreated to the bathroom again to finish drying off and getting dressed. When done, he felt… better.

But still, he found himself shuffling to the bedroom again, and crawling into bed, barely registering that the sheets were his best silks, and the quilt was the one his minions had put together for him. Now he was sleepy as well as tired. He curled up under his blanket with his cats and sighed deeply.

“No, you have to eat too.”

Q grumbled and squirmed further under the quilt.

Bond sighed from the doorway. “Fine, I’ll bring you food,” he declared, and vanished down the hall.

Q closed his eyes and… drifted. Maybe he slept. He wasn’t sure. But he lost track of anything but his and Ginny and Gwen’s breathing, all three of them synced together. Perhaps the sisters had decided it was safe to sleep because Q had accepted Bond. Ginny always did a little _mrrt_ -ing snore every three breaths, and Gwen was fighting something in her sleep, judging by her faint growls. His two Guineveres. He still didn’t know why he’d named them the same. Maybe it was because he just really loved the sound, and the taste of it. It reminded him of lilies and—

Was that… bacon?

He cracked one eye and frowned at the calico fur mere centimeters from his face. He didn’t have bacon. He didn’t even _like_ bacon. Where had Bond gotten—

And why the hell was he calling Bond “Bond”? He was supposed to be 007.

Would 007 have hugged him? Would 007 have looked at him like that? Not in that burning, suggestive way, but that exasperation, that annoyance, when Q had mentioned women who wouldn’t mind hooking up with him. The suggestive voice, touches, sultry gaze, that was all part of 007’s job; but the genuine impatience wasn’t.

What had he said? “I want you.” But surely that was a lie. Surely that was just his way of getting information. Why had Q given him his birth name anyway? He hadn’t been called “Danny” in a good three years or so.

Bah. Fuck this. He rolled over on his back and wondered why the cats hadn’t savaged B—007 while Q was in the shower. Usually they took every opening… maybe he’d found the treats and bribed them.

“Do you eat bacon?” 007 asked from the doorway.

“No,” Q answered absently, reaching out to pet Gwen, continuing to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t keep it in the flat, either. Where did you get it?”

“I brought it with me,” 007 answered, and he sounded a little uncomfortable and awkward. “I wasn’t sure if you had anything edible, if you were even here.” Then he cleared his throat and asked, “What about toast?”

“As long as you don’t burn it.”

~~~\0/~~~

James watched Q nibble toast as James warily fed bacon to the cats. They seemed to have accepted him for the time being; perhaps because he’d fed them tuna when he noticed that their food bowls were empty. Finicky creatures, cats.

Just as he was thinking that, the one called Gwen put her ears back and hissed. He hastily withdrew the bacon he’d been holding out to her. Ginny meowed indignantly; he offered it to her instead. She hadn’t hurt him permanently, just… badly. He’d quickly nipped into the bathroom to check the damage, and it hadn’t been as extensive as it felt. It still hurt terribly, of course. But he was used to pain.

“Does it still hurt?” Q asked quietly between delicate munches.

“Hmm? Oh. Yes,” James answered dismissively, wiping his bacon-greased hands on a piece of paper towel and taking a big chomp of his own toast.

“That’s my girl,” Q murmured with a hint of a smile, holding out his hand and letting Ginny lick off the butter and crumbs.

James chose not to comment. It seemed… diplomatic.

When they were done eating, Q leaned back against the headboard (they were all sitting on that ridiculous bed) and sighed heavily. “I have a lot of questions,” he began slowly, not looking at James, “But I have the feeling you won’t tell me the truth, and since I don’t want to deal with your being difficult right now, I won’t ask.”

James picked some crumbs up off the sheet. He almost wished Q _would_ ask. Instead he did the questioning; “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

Q blinked, startled. “That was you?” he asked. “I thought someone just had the wrong number.”

James refused to scowl at him; he still looked so soft and fragile, even though James knew he was hard as granite underneath. Wasn’t he? Of course he was. He was Q. Indomitable, indestructible, immeasurable Q.

Wasn’t he?

“Even after seven times you thought it was a wrong number?” James inquired, slightly annoyed. He was _worried_ , damn it!

“Well, yes,” Q answered, and braced himself, almost as if he expected a physical blow.

James just frowned. He wasn’t sure how he felt about all this. Finally, he just said, “You know we were all worried for you. All of us. Q branch, Engineering, agents—you have friends, Q.” He reached over slowly and took Q’s hand in his. It was cold and bony and he wanted nothing more than to kiss it a million times. “And if not friends, then allies.”

“And what are you?” Q asked, and if James’ attention hadn’t been fixed on that hand in his, he would have missed the slight squeeze.

“Friend, if you want. More, if you’ll have me.” And he did not let his voice get husky or suggestive. He just offered and left it open.

Q sat and stared at him, critically, taking in every detail, trying to find a lie. The cats, curled up on either side of Q like guardian sphinxes, began to purr.

“…Thank you,” Q said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the best friends ever for helping me through writing this.
> 
> I'm sorry if this feels off or wrong or cliche or too different from the rest, but my head's been through so many different cycles in the past few days it's hard to keep track of where this was supposed to be going. Thank you for your comments, I really do appreciate every single one of them. And thank you for reading this hot mess of a fic. <3


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